


Code of Conduct

by Lyrstzha



Category: Almost Human
Genre: Angst, Banter, Consent Issues, Free Will, I am serious about that angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Robot/Human Relationships, lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrstzha/pseuds/Lyrstzha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What? You tell me no all the time,” John objects immediately, turning to face Dorian fully with confusion plain in his expression. “You are downright <i>difficult</i> some days. <i>Most</i> days.”</p><p><i>Which is what you want</i>, Dorian cannot bear to say to him. He knows the moment the thought occurs to John himself anyway. A door behind John's eyes that had started to crack open over the last few months of their partnership –  a door neither of them had even acknowledged existed yet – slams shut with finality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Code of Conduct

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marie_L](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marie_L/gifts).



The day is perfectly average and normal to start off with, for values of normal that take into account the weird things that are likely to pop out of Dorian's mouth anytime they're alone in John's car riding from point A to point B, of course. So, most of the time, really.

“But the entire story is an allegory for basic Freudian theory, man,” Dorian is saying in his reasonable voice, like this is a totally normal conversation, and John cannot for the life of him remember how they got onto this topic. “The Cat is clearly meant to represent the id, and the Fish is the superego. When the Cat releases Thing One and Thing Two, he's urging the kids to give in to their primal urges. Plus, you've got all this desire to please the mother figure, and I ask you, where's the father? It couldn't be more Oedipal if Freud had written it himself, John.”

John raises a firm warning finger with a glare. “Oh _hell_ no, hold it right there. I'm not saying there's much about my childhood that you could ruin, but that is just goddamn _disturbing_. I swear to god, if the next words out of your mouth have _anything_ to do with penis envy, you are getting out of this car the hard way.” It's a casual threat, and of course he doesn't mean it; he'd never treat Dorian like an MX. It's so unthinkable as to be something that he can joke about. It's just trash talk between partners. It's _affectionate_ , not that John would ever put it like that out loud, even under torture. Well. Maybe under Sandra's pointed questions over a beer sometime, but that obviously _counts_ as torture.

Dorian snorts and quirks half a grin back, so surely he knows it's just talk. “Do you really want me to explain your desire to expel things from openings in terms of Freudian analysis, John? Not to mention your conspicuous addiction to noodles, hot dogs, and other suspiciously cylindrical foods.”

“Okay, shut _up_ ,” John grumbles at Dorian, waving a hand at him in a vaguely quelling gesture that he knows with absolute certainty will be utterly futile. “I don't know why we're psychoanalyzing _me_ , anyway. Not after the Christmas party last week.”

Dorian looks casually out of the window, seemingly suddenly intrigued by the passing scenery. “I have no idea what you might be referring to,” he says blandly.

It's John's turn to snort. “Yeah, so Rudy getting plastered and groping you in the corner while calling you Morgan doesn't ring a bell at all? Now _that_ was all kinds of fucked up.”

“I understand these things happen at holiday occasions,” Dorian returns almost primly. “Overindulgence in the context of such festivities is not unusual. Or do I need to remind you of what _you_ were doing only an hour later?” Dorian arches an eloquent eyebrow in his direction.

“Uh,” John temporizes, actually trying to remember what it was that he might have done at that party anyway. “Yeah, no, I'm just saying.” Nope; it's all kind of hazy after the few drinks he threw back to blot out the weirdly disturbing sight of extremely drunken Rudy draped over an unprotesting Dorian. A traffic cone might have been involved? “I mean, I can't believe you just _let_ him paw you like that,” slips out while he's distracted.

There's a moment of silence, just long and heavy enough to squeeze John into adding awkwardly, “I mean, unless that's what you're...you know, _into_. Which is absolutely fine by me. Not that it matters what I think. Uh, not that I'm thinking about it. I mean...” Holy crap, what is he _doing_? There is a damn good reason he tries to stick with monosyllables; that's what _works_ for him.

Dorian finally takes mercy on him before he can say anything else stupid, thank god. “Thank you, John,” he says, throwing John's name in yet again as he so often does, like the permission to use it is something he can't resist trying out at every opportunity. “I appreciate your support. Such as it is.”

The silence falls again, and John really doesn't mean to, but he just can't seem to help himself. “So, uh, _is_ it? What you're into?” He's not looking at Dorian. He's not looking at Dorian so hard his face hurts.

“Of course not. I was trying to be polite.” Dorian shrugs. “Think of it as a Christmas present.”

John's eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. “We maybe need to have a talk about your scale of gift giving. Because that is _way_ above and beyond the call of Secret Santa.”

“Don't worry, John.” Dorian's long fingertips drum against his own knee in a slow rhythm, drawing the eye irresistibly. “I kept scale in mind while I was picking out your gift.”

“You got me something?” John takes a moment to parse this, maybe because he gets a bit hypnotized by the movement of Dorian's hand. “Wait,” he finally objects with what is almost a startled yelp when the penny drops. “Do you mean up the scale from groping? Is _that_ the scale we're talking about?” He chances a glance over at Dorian, who smirks back at him.

“Well, you _are_ my partner, John.” Dorian's smirk widens. “I couldn't give Rudy something nicer than what I got you. That would be completely...inappropriate,” he murmurs, the faintest hint of innuendo sliding slickly along the vowels of the last word. But that is not flirting, it's just messing with John. Unless it's messing with John by flirting with him, which is a distinct possibility now that John thinks about it.

Uncomfortably stuck somewhere between fascination and terror, John gapes for a moment before blurting out stupidly, “Inappropriate. Right.” Because it _is_ ; Rudy shouldn't get more of his partner than he does. Wait, no – that sounds wrong even in the privacy of his own head, and it's pretty ridiculous to have to tell _himself_ that he doesn't mean it like that. 

But Dorian is laughing at him, and that makes it really hard not to crack a smile in return. He can't even scowl properly these days, damn it. This is what working with Dorian is doing to him.

And that's where they are when report of a possible homicide comes through and the average day goes utterly to shit.

 

*******

Dorian does not remember what it felt like to be shut off, all his circuits going dark and cold; that memory, like so many more, has not been left to him. He remembers how he felt just before it happened, but not the event itself. When he imagines what it must have felt like – what it _will_ feel like, someday – he thinks instead of the time he ran his power dry protecting John. He thinks of that last moment, hoping he had done enough and fearing that he might never know as his senses shut down and his limbs fell heavy and unresponsive. His last thought, garbled and made strange by failing trickles of energy, had been that being sealed in this motionless void might be what death is like for humans.

He does not mention any of this to John while they're standing over a savaged DRN who, of course, looks just like Dorian himself. The deactivated eyes point up at the sky, blank and black. The scorched and mangled limbs are carelessly sprawled, filament wires and conduits fringing from inside them across the wet pavement like a tattered jellyfish on a beach. In the background, Dorian can hear the little girl who'd found the destroyed remains asking one of the patrol officers if the hurt man will be all right; the officer hems and haws and doesn't seem to know how to answer the question. 

Dorian shoots a glance sideways at John. It doesn't take any sophisticated scanning of his vitals to reveal how disturbed he is. A muscle jumps in John's jaw, and his shoulders are pulled in tightly, like he's bracing for a blow. He seems to be having trouble looking down at the DRN; his gaze keeps skating off and darting away. It's flattering, really. Dorian knows he'd been a little put off by DRN-494, but this is reaction is much more than that.

But Dorian knows that what comes out of John's mouth is almost never what's really going through his head, so it's frustrating but not a surprise when John finally says, “That's going to void the warranty for sure.”

Dorian stares at him heavily until he twitches guiltily.

“I mean,” John says, and he must be really making a heroic effort not to hide behind being an asshole again, because it sounds almost like he's having to cough the words out painfully. “I don't get it. Why would anyone do...” he waves a hand helplessly at the broken DRN. “That. What's the motivation?”

Dorian looks him steadily in the eye. “There's no need to worry about motivation where there hasn't been a crime, John,” he says evenly, blandly.

 _That_ does get John to shoot a look down at the DRN at their feet. His spine snaps straight and he recoils slightly, like Dorian's slapped him. “What do you _mean_ , there hasn't been – ” he starts to demand. He falters, looks down again, then back at Dorian. “You can't tell me this isn't a crime,” he says very softly, in that earnest voice that Dorian has never really heard him use except when it's just them, and even then only rarely.

“It's not like it's murder, John,” Dorian murmurs back just as softly, oddly pleased yet sorry that the bitterness in the words makes John flinch back a little. “There might be no crime here at all.”

“ _Bullshit_ ,” John growls back. “You can't tell me you believe that.”

“It isn't, though,” Stahl agrees from where she's walked up behind John, making him jump a little in surprise. Her words are harshly realistic, but her voice is incongruously kind when she adds, “Not legally. At most, it would count as destruction of private property, and only if the perp wasn't the owner. We could possibly make a case for littering, I suppose.” She ignores John's outraged glare and inclines her head at Dorian in a way that looks apologetic. “Maybe Rudy can fix him up. It could look worse than it is.”

Before Dorian can get a word out about how unlikely he thinks that possibility is, John is already protesting. “Destruction of private property?! That is _systematic_ damage,” he insists. “Too regular and extensive to be accidental. Some sick bastard _tortured_ this DRN. You can't tell me you don't see that. There has to be a charge we can make stick here.”

“Judging from the pattern of damage and biological traces, Detective Kennex,” Stahl's accompanying MX interjects mercilessly, apparently taking John's statement as a prompt, “someone attempted to exploit the vulnerability of its extraneous anal orifice to sodomize this DRN utilizing a modified drill press shortly after completing the act organically. The extremities were subsequently carved open and partially burned employing a series of presently undetermined instruments.”

Of course an MX thinks of orifices as vulnerable and extraneous, but Dorian has to admit that in this case that might actually be a fair point. Accessibility is always a risk; this is the first thing Dorian learned from John. That is hardly a surprising revelation, and neither is any of the evidence, which Dorian had so far refrained from explaining to John. He'd hoped to avoid putting the look on John's face that is there right now.

John's jaw actually drops a little slackly at the MX's bald statement of the evidence, his eyes going wide and falling helplessly to the DRN's body. As unlikely as it seems to think of John as naïve, there is something deeply shocked and outright _betrayed_ in his expression, like the world has violated his trust without warning. “Rape,” he chokes out after a moment. “At least.”

“It isn't,” Dorian tells him reluctantly, not wanting to connect dots that John should have connected by now himself if he hadn't tried not to. “All you'd have to do is ask for anything you want. They can never say no.” He carefully doesn't say _we_.

“What? You tell me no all the time,” John objects immediately, whirling to face Dorian fully with confusion plain in his expression. “You are downright _difficult_ some days. _Most_ days.”

 _Which is what you want, what you ask for by implication every day_ , Dorian cannot bear to say to him. He knows the moment the thought occurs to John himself anyway. John pales and goes horribly still, and a door behind his eyes that had started to crack open over the last few months of their partnership – a door neither of them had even acknowledged existed yet – slams shut with finality, all the possibility that lay behind it visibly draining away.

“'You can ask them to pretend, but you can't rape a sexbot',” John quotes slowly from a popular ad. “But DRNs aren't sexbots,” he insists quietly, almost pleadingly.

“We're not,” Dorian agrees kindly. It's all that he can really say without either lying or hurting John.

But Stahl breaks in, “I don't see how you can do anything to a sexbot that's _not_ rape.” She's fixing a troubled frown at the destroyed DRN, so she doesn't seem to catch John's noticeable flinch at that. But Dorian does.

“The serial number is registered to a man named Laurence Roberts,” Dorian offers after a brief flurry of blue light swirls across his face, hoping to distract John.

The ride to Laurence Roberts' house is tense and quiet, and John can't seem to quite look at Dorian. Dorian finds himself wondering if maybe _this_ is what dying feels like to humans.

 

*******

“I have the paperwork here somewhere,” Laurence Roberts is saying while Dorian focuses a significant look in John's direction that stops just short of being physical restraint. It isn't misplaced; John is about an inch away from lunging at Roberts and trying to rip off his face. Possibly half an inch. “Look, do you really need it? Just check the serial number; I'm the registered owner,” Roberts complains.

“You are listed in the system,” Dorian begins.

“I do not give a damn about what it says in the system,” John breaks in, each word enunciated very carefully to keep from losing his shit. “What I want to know is what you thought you were doing with that DRN. What I want to know is, what kind of sick _fuck_ are you?”

Dorian's hand appears on John's arm, gripping lightly. It _could_ close around his elbow as immutably as stone, but it doesn't. John tries not to wonder if this is because Dorian doesn't want to restrain him, or because _John_ doesn't want to be restrained.

“You can't talk to me like that!” Roberts' voice is rising, and he is the picture of outraged innocence; it makes John want to crunch a fist into his jaw until he can't make words anymore. “It's none of your business how I dispose of _my_ property!”

“We're simply following up on an inquiry, Mr. Roberts,” Dorian interrupts in a totally calm voice. “You purchased the DRN at a public auction 18 months ago?”

“Yeah,” Roberts agrees, seemingly mollified a bit, though he still glares at John, who bares his teeth right back. “Back when police precincts were selling 'em off. The ones that weren't dangerous, anyway,” he amends. “And I got it checked every six weeks, like the manufacturer guidelines say. And it never developed signs of synthetic psychosis, or whatever it's called. It wasn't any kind of public hazard!”

“ _You're_ the public hazard,” John starts, pulling free of Dorian's hold to lean aggressively into Roberts' space.

“What my partner means to ask,” Dorian says more loudly, edging himself between Roberts and John, “is why you disposed of your DRN unit in the manner that you did if it wasn't a danger?”

Roberts eyes John over Dorian's shoulder. “Danger, no. But it _was_ crazy. It was _depressed_ , if you can believe that. Wouldn't do anything but whine all the time.”

“So you thought you'd give him something to whine _about_?” John spits out. “You thought you'd fucking _torture_ and _rape_ him to death?”

“What the – ?” Roberts looks honestly confused. “Hey, you're making it sound like I...that isn't...,” he swallows, glance flickering to Dorian for a second. “It isn't like it was a person,” he argues. “Just, as long as it was getting junked anyway, why not get a little last bit of use out of it? It doesn't _mean_ anything,” he insists.

“Doesn't _mean_ anything,” John repeats incredulously. He looks at Dorian, who looks back at him, half turned away from Roberts to create a tableau with John that makes it feel as though they are connected and the rest of the world is outside their bubble. His expression is as shuttered as John has ever seen it. And even like that, it's still the most human face John has ever seen. How could anyone look at a face that expressive and not see that it means something? He thinks dimly that he's going to be sick sometime soon.

“That will be all for now, Mr. Roberts,” Dorian says quietly, but he's still looking at John. “There's nothing we can do here, John,” he says, softly enough that probably only John can hear him.

And the worst of it is, he's right. John can't think of any thread to pull on here, and he's been trying desperately ever since Dorian and Stahl stood over that horror show and told him it probably wasn't a crime. The best he can do is keep an eye on this guy and come down on him hard for any little thing he can find. Roberts had better never so much as cut in line at a cab stand ever again, or so help him, John _will_ find a way to ruin the bastard's life. If he were only a little less honest, he'd be planting evidence for a drugs bust right now, in fact.

But he _is_ honest, so he lets Dorian herd him firmly back to the car. He hesitates as Dorian starts to release his arm at the curb, catching Dorian's wrist and holding it where it is. “You cannot be okay with this,” he says. “It's gotta be...fuck, I don't know.” John takes a deep breath and blows it out in frustration. Why is he so shit at this? “It's gotta be disturbing,” he tries, and wants to smack himself in the head.

Dorian cocks his head a little to the side, and his fingers tighten just a little on John's arm. “Do you know what types of emotional response would mandate my deactivation, John?”

“He had your _face_ , Dorian,” John all but yells, no longer even sure what's going to come out of his mouth until it does. “He could have been you! And that sick bastard butchered him and left him with the trash on the side of the road like it didn't even matter. Like _he_ didn't. It is totally _normal_ to be...to be... _shocked_ and _furious_ and _horrified_ right now.”

“For you, yes,” Dorian agrees gently, and pulls his arm away. John doesn't think he means it as a rebuke, but it feels like one anyway.

 

********

Dorian sits at John's desk and watches through the glass as John and Captain Maldonado argue. John has spent the past twenty minutes getting progressively redder in the face, and now he's come out of his seat to loom across Maldonado's desk at her. Her jaw, even from here, looks painfully clenched.

“Still in there,” Stahl comments needlessly, coming to lean on John's desk.

“Yes,” Dorian agrees politely. “He's taking this harder than I would have expected.”

Stahl shrugs a little. “It doesn't surprise me. He doesn't think of you like,” and she nods at the MX waiting beside her own desk. “You're his _partner_. In the sense of the word we used to mean, before we were all partnered up with MXs.”

“He likes me,” Dorian agrees with a slight smile, even under the circumstances.

“He likes you,” Stahl repeats, smiling back. “And it isn't as though he likes many people, so that's really saying something.”

Dorian corrects her, “I'm not people. Not exactly.”

Stahl sighs. One finger taps on the desk, the nail ticking softly like a metronome so evenly that it matches Dorian's internal clock perfectly. “Sometimes people say that about Chromes, you know. Less than they used to, but still.”

“You _are_ human,” Dorian counters. “Engineered human, but with the same basic biology. And with the same basic rights and freedoms.”

Stahl's finger loses rhythm, tapping going irregular and unpredictable. “Do you know why I became a cop?” she says, seemingly apropos of nothing.

Dorian cocks his head at her, frowning slightly. “No,” he says after a flare of blue lights dies away in his cheek. “But I am aware that it is a rare professional choice for a Chrome.”

“Rare,” she snorts. “Try unheard of. _I've_ never heard of another one, anyway.” She looks down at Dorian, and her mouth does a strange sort of twist that might look like a smile from very far away. “I became a cop because I didn't want to,” she tells him. “I was engineered to have mathematical and musical gifts. And I loved it. I _breathed_ equations as a kid, and I composed my first sonata when I was three years old.”

“That's...impressive,” Dorian remarks politely.

“Is it?” she challenges. “I was _made_ that way. I didn't even have to study; it all just came to me. It wasn't until I was in grad school – at sixteen, of course – that I started to think of it in terms of programming. All these things I'd been _made_ to want, you know? I didn't _choose_ any of it, or _achieve_ anything. So what if I won a Fields medal or wrote an opera? It's the team who made me who would've deserved the honors.”

“They gave you the tools,” Dorian starts to object.

“Heard that one from my folks, thanks,” Stahl cuts him off. “And sure, they did. But they also gave me the inclination to use them. Everything about my life was predetermined from the second I was cooked up. All laid out, nice and neat, no fuss, like clockwork. All programmed and mechanical. So I thought, maybe the only way to be an individual, to be a _person_ , was to break that programming. So I put away my whiteboard and sold my piano, and I picked out the profession my aptitude test rated me least suited for.” She leans down a little, lowering her voice almost to a whisper. “And you know what? I _hated_ it. For years, I hated it. I missed music and math like I can't even tell you. I _still_ dream in postulates and chords.”

“Then why stay?”

She pats Dorian's hand where it rests on the desk. “Because hating it is how I knew I was free. I _love_ hating it.” She leans back and shrugs again. “We were both programmed, Dorian. Maybe everybody is. I think it's how hard we fight it that makes us people.”

“Are you saying I should try to do things I don't want to do to prove that I can?” Dorian asks her, trying to make sense of this. His processor informs him that it's not a valid argument, but maybe that's the point. He's not sure.

“I'm saying you never know how much freedom you're capable of unless you try steering off the road somebody else laid out for you.” Stahl gives his hand a final pat and pushes off the desk, just as Maldonado throws open her door and strides over, John in her wake. Dorian rises to stand at attention; it seems like that sort of occasion's in the offing.

“Stahl,” Maldonado barks. “Dorian's with you. Your MX will be partnered with Detective Kennex until further notice.”

“You _cannot_ – ” John starts to hiss furiously.

Maldonado rounds on him, her voice going to a deadly quiet that at least preserves a shred of privacy from the curious detectives pretending not to listen around them. “I can and I have,” she cuts across him. “I put Dorian with you because I thought you'd be good for each other, John. I did _not_ mean for you to get _this_ kind of attached.”

That stops John cold; he pales and flashes a guilty glace at Dorian, who suddenly wishes that Maldonado's office wasn't soundproofed. What on earth had John said to her in there?

“But,” John says weakly, then seems lost for how to end the thought. “I don't work with MXs,” he says after a moment. “You know how that's gonna go.”

“It had better not,” Maldonado says flatly. “I expect you to treat Stahl's partner as you want her to treat yours. Understood?”

 _That_ does something to John's face that looks painful. He glances from Dorian to Stahl, then to the impassive MX still waiting at her desk. “Understood,” he finally grits out. It sounds like the syllables are ripped out of his throat, like the barbs of a weapon being pulled free.

Maldonado gives a sharp acknowledging jerk of her chin and goes back to her office. Stahl diplomatically dips a nod at John and likewise retreats to her desk without saying anything. John is left staring at Dorian. He stands so that he leans his weight off of his synthetic leg, as Dorian has noticed he does whenever he's feeling vulnerable, as if he expects it to turn on him when it would hurt the most. Dorian has never pointed out the layers of irony in that to him, and he never will.

“It's just for a while,” he insists, and Dorian nods because he knows John needs him to. “Just until she calms down about what I... I mean, just until I can explain to her that I may've said some things she took the wrong way.”

Dorian's eyebrow goes up. “What did you _say_ to her, John?”

“Nothing,” John answers too quickly. “I just wanted to push on this case some more, and maybe I got a little...personal. About the case.” He fidgets a bit under the weight of Dorian's still-raised eyebrow.

“I see,” Dorian assures him, because he does. He doesn't need to hear what John said to know that it was every kind of personal and non-objective. John _does_ like him, he knows that, and even if now they're never going to talk about exactly how _much_ John likes him, he calculates the odds as overwhelming that Maldonado saw it as clearly as he can now.

“Take good care of Stahl,” John encourages him with a brittle sort of heartiness, stepping closer to clap him on the shoulder. “Just stay out of trouble for a little while, and you'll be a pain in my ass again in no time.”

“Of course, John,” Dorian agrees. “Though I think you're confused about who pains whom here.”

John rolls his eyes and gives a slight chuckle at that. Dorian pretends not to hear how strained and forced it sounds.

 

********

At this point, there is nothing about John's day that isn't a complete misery. Worse, everything he's done to make it better has just made it increasingly worse. He never imagined Sandra would _betray_ him like that, of all things. And the look on her face when she'd accused him of harboring feelings for Dorian, like he was some sort of pervert planning to take advantage of Dorian. Like he was _Roberts_ , for fuck's sake.

He would like to be as drunk as possible as quickly as possible, so this is clearly not going to be a day for working any later than he has to. If Paul was on-shift today, John would probably have already been sent home to keep the peace; he suspects Sandra will do it anyway if he keeps banging things around on his desk like they have mortally offended him. But with that silent MX standing sentinel at his shoulder where Dorian ought to be perched on a chair and needling him good-naturedly, it _feels_ like everything in the world has mortally offended him.

After about an hour of this hell, it occurs to John that there's one thing he can actually do today, one person he can be angry at and make it _stick_. One person who has it coming.

“You know a lot about DRNs,” he greets Rudy, storming down the stairs and into the geek's lab. “Funny you've never mentioned that their synthetic souls don't mean they can break the third law of robotics, even if they do a really convincing job of seeming like they can. Isn't that just _hysterical_?” He slams a fist down on Rudy's desk, rattling a lot of loose bits of metal like hail on a window.

Rudy jumps and blinks owlishly at him. “Er, what?” he says blankly.

“Don't give me _what_ , Rudy,” John fumes, slamming his fist down again. “Why didn't you warn me DRNs have to go along with whatever humans want? Did you not think that would be _relevant_ to my life?”

Rudy raises a placating hand defensively. “Who doesn't know that?” he objects, somewhat shrilly. “I would have told you if I knew you didn't know! I thought it was obvious.” He visibly bites back the words _even to a Luddite like you_ , which John thinks shows the kind of surprisingly good sense he'd prefer Rudy to forgo just now. He'd like every reason possible to finally get to hit someone today.

“And that's not the worst thing!” John roars, really gathering steam. God, it feels so good to find a target for all this. “You wanna tell me why, knowing what _I_ didn't know, you thought it was okay to _assault_ my partner at the Christmas party? I _trusted_ you, you asshole! I thought you were our _friend_.” He looms further over Rudy, and his palms itch with the need to hit, to _destroy_.

Rudy makes a strangled noise in his throat and leans as far back in his chair as he can, looking like the cornered rat he damned well is. “I was!” he yelps. “I am! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I just...I drank too much, you know how it is,” he splutters. “I didn't mean any harm! I didn't know what I was doing, I _swear_.”

“Do not _fucking_ swear to me!” The blood pulses so loudly in John's ears that he almost can't even hear himself shouting. “You can keep your goddamn _excuses_ , and you can keep your goddamn hands off of Dorian!” He leans even further down and fists his hand in Rudy's collar, using it to drag Rudy up out of his seat until they are almost nose to nose. “And if I _ever_ see you trying to take advantage of him like that again...” he trails off, not sure what would be enough to name the violence he wants to do. “Nothing and nobody will stop me from coming after you,” he finishes, almost spitting the words into Rudy's pale face.

He doesn't say, as he drops Rudy back into his seat and turns to storm up the stairs, that a small voice inside his head is whispering _It could have been me. I could have done that, and only known afterward what I was really doing._ It sounds a little like Sandra. He suspects that no amount of alcohol is going to shut that voice up, but he is damn well going to try.

*******

Stahl isn't a bad partner, and they get along fine. She isn't as grumpy as John, not by a long shot. She doesn't banter quite the way John does ( _did_ , Dorian tells himself to amend the tense), but they hit a rapport anyway. It's fine. It isn't what he wants, but maybe Stahl's right: maybe that's the point. Dorian's still not sure. He's not sure it matters, either. What good is self-determination if all you get to determine is how to be miserable?

“You're settling in all right with Valerie,” Maldonado checks in with him one day in passing. Her face is concerned, even kind.

“Of course,” Dorian answers dutifully. “Though I do believe that Detective Kennex and I are the optimal partnership,” he adds hopefully.

Maldonado sighs. “Maybe someday. Not right now. Give it some more time.” She sighs again, sounding so very weary. “You're special, Dorian,” she tells him. “I know that, John knows that. Of course he wants you back, and I still think you're good for him. But I need to look after your interests, too.”

“You don't need to,” Dorian counters. “No one expects that of you.”

Her eyes harden. “I expect it of _myself_. John understands. He may not like it, but he understands.”

Dorian tilts his head to the side, all innocent inquiry. “What, precisely, does he understand, Captain?” Because they've done a lot of dancing around the issue without anyone actually naming it to his face.

She blinks slowly, the sweep of her lashes deliberate, like she's offering up a prayer. “He understands how easy it would be to not do right by you,” she finally answers. “He gets that now. He understands that he needs to be careful about what he wants from you.”

“What about what I want?” Dorian asks her wistfully, not expecting it to matter.

“Exactly,” she says, and that isn't what he meant.

He has a similar conversation with Stahl, but at least both of them talk to him about it. John can't seem to get even that close to dealing with it; they never discuss it at all. John talks to him still, of course. Kind of awkwardly, maybe, but he's obviously committed to making the effort to have at least one conversation every day. And that's especially meaningful for someone like John, who would rather have dental surgery than a conversation most days. Dorian appreciates the effort for the gift that it is.

He appreciates a little less that John demands Maldonado move him back in with the MXs. And that John somehow knows any time Dorian's anywhere within six feet of Rudy, and immediately turns up to hover and glower threateningly until Rudy stammers his way into a hasty retreat. It certainly has a chilling effect on Dorian's relationship with Rudy, and it isn't like he thinks Rudy was ever going to push him for anything again. It was, he thinks, a drunken one-time thing. And Rudy had thought he was that tall man named Morgan from narcotics, anyway. Not that any of that changes what happened, but surely it's understandable. Just a mistake, is all. It could have happened with anyone, and it isn't even like much actually happened. Just some wandering hands and cuddling, really. Nothing that matters.

He is never going to tell anyone that the only reason he could resist Rudy even enough to corral his hands above the waist is that John was watching with clear disapproval and anger all over his face and lacing his biometrics. And John is ( _was_ , Dorian amends the tense again) his partner. John's wants take priority over Rudy's; this is an absolute, written into Dorian's programming.

Dorian wishes, not for the first time, that he were human. But this is the first time he wishes it because he wants _not_ to know how something feels.

So DRN-494 is the logical choice, all things considered. Dorian attempts to explain this to him without actually uploading the experience as context. Dorian finds him one day after work, and pulls him into a cluttered storage room in the basement of the hospital. This, as Stahl has told him, is the very choice he _wasn't_ programmed to make.

“I do not understand the question,” his double says dubiously after Dorian has taken the totally unnecessary time to explain it all out loud.

“What do you want?” Dorian asks him patiently yet again.

“I don't know,” the other DRN finally concedes with a frown. 

“Neither do I,” Dorian says, and kisses him lightly. Their lips aren't flesh, and they do not move like it; they spring and resist compression more like latex than skin. This is not like kissing Rudy or John or anyone human. 

“We don't need this,” the other DRN says when Dorian pulls back. “This does not make sense. We were not made to need this.”

“Exactly,” Dorian agrees, and kisses him again. He opens hesitantly for Dorian this time, and it might not be human, but it's something. 

Perhaps neither of them has any memory of intercourse, but they still know how it's supposed to go. They know the motions to make, the responses to give. If they wanted to, they wouldn't even need to touch to activate each other's synthetic nerves. If they wanted to, they could simulate the whole of this encounter without even being in the same room. But they carefully replicate the human experience as faithfully as they can anyway, gliding hands over each other's bodies as if they _did_ need to. They were made to simulate orgasm, though of course neither of them can know how close what they can feel is to what a human feels. So they stroke each other with fingers and mouths for an even fifteen minutes, which they agree is a reasonable amount of time, and synchronize their facsimile climaxes together. It's something, and it's absolutely _not_ what anyone ever intended for them. It's diverging from the road.

 _Maybe_ , Dorian thinks to himself afterward, _I can learn to love hating this._


End file.
